Tourist cabins for Negroes. Highway sign. South Carolina
Railroad station, Manchester, Georgia
Street scene near bus station in Durham, North Carolina
Drinking fountain on the county courthouse lawn, Halifax, North Carolina
Town Poem
When you hear about Possum, Alabama
You won’t hear much
Just that it is quiet and dull
And things of that such
Most people were content
Adventure they did not implore
But, although it was a childhood well spent
I have always wanted more
It is a town never changing
Winters spilling into springs
But I do like that about Alabama
The tree bird forever sings
There are the drooling buildings to the east
The morose school house howling dread
Or to the west the attentive trees
Arising for the morning in their grassy bed
Humdrum is this town, you might think
With a melody equivalent to that of the kitchen sink
But it is full of whispers, rumors, an infamous tale
Which is kept alive by the nefarious trail
In the clouds of the woods, where there is no light to be seen
A place where no journey is made lies beneath the oppressive greens
Every youth as inquired, the voice of honey, Mrs. McCoy or stinging bee, Mr. Burns
But all they obtained was that one who enters will not return
A hundred moons ago, an expedition, they say
But their screams were not heard before they were taken away
Some say it’s a monster, a murderer, a curse
But no one is brave enough to see it in the first
So their the path lies, in the clouds of the woods
In the little town of Possum which seemed nothing but good
Every town has there secrets, in some sort of way
And, because of that fact, Possum is a town far from gray
Town Poem
When you hear about Possum, Alabama
You won’t hear much
Just that it is quiet and dull
And things of that such
Most people were content
Adventure they did not implore
But, although it was a childhood well spent
I have always wanted more
It is a town never changing
Winters spilling into springs
But I do like that about Alabama
The tree bird forever sings
There are the drooling buildings to the east
The morose school house howling dread
Or to the west the attentive trees
Arising for the morning in their grassy bed
Humdrum is this town, you might think
With a melody equivalent to that of the kitchen sink
But it is full of whispers, rumors, an infamous tale
Which is kept alive by the nefarious trail
In the clouds of the woods, where there is no light to be seen
A place where no journey is made lies beneath the oppressive greens
Every youth as inquired, the voice of honey, Mrs. McCoy or stinging bee, Mr. Burns
But all they obtained was that one who enters will not return
A hundred moons ago, an expedition, they say
But their screams were not heard before they were taken away
Some say it’s a monster, a murderer, a curse
But no one is brave enough to see it in the first
So their the path lies, in the clouds of the woods
In the little town of Possum which seemed nothing but good
Every town has there secrets, in some sort of way
And, because of that fact, Possum is a town far from gray